


The Limits

by lousy_science



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fight Club - Freeform, First Time, Graduate School, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-23 02:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13180509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: John Blake has all the usual grad student problems - no spare time, a demanding supervisor, endless data to compile, deadlines to meet, surviving an underground fight ring led by a mysterious figure who might be the scariest fighter he's ever seen. And trying to keep his laptop from crashing.





	1. Chapter 1

John’s New Year’s resolution was to start saying “no” more often. As resolutions went, it wasn’t as fun as _holiday in the tropics_ or _kiss more boys_ , and it probably wouldn’t make him richer or more successful or any of the usual goals. But he didn’t start a master’s degree in Social Work because he wanted to be a millionaire, and he was lucky to be in decent enough shape between his jujitsu practice and basketball that he didn’t need the challenge of running a marathon or eating more kale. 

But there was no way he could juggle his schoolwork, day job, helping out at the orphanage, and his pathetic semblance of a social life while continuing to help out everyone who asked for something from him. Selina told him off for it all the time, said he was a “chronic people pleaser” with “boundary issues”; she was his best friend, so he felt OK telling her she was a “cold-hearted ho” with a few issues of her own.

“More issues than Vogue, kiddo,” she agreed, clinking their glasses together. “And I might add ‘cold-hearted ho’ to my business cards.”

It was January the 2nd, and they were having a party of two at Selina’s condo. Because John had been helping out at the local homeless shelter over New Year’s Eve, he’d not had much of a New Year’s celebration, unless you counted Sniffy Ned managing to vomit on just one of John’s shoes instead of both of them. So Selina invited him around to her place to drink some of this hideously expensive champagne that one of her admirers had bought her, talk shit about the socialite friends she’d been partying with, and show off pictures of the diamond collection she was assessing for a client. 

“See this setting? Twelve VVS stones, pear cut, once owned by one of Picasso’s early patrons. Hasn’t been on the market for sixty years. The youngest generation of the family who own it have run into some short-term financial distress - ” she ran a finger under her nose in the universal sign language for cocaine, rolled her eyes and continued, “and they want a discreet private sale.”

“That’s some fancy-looking lumps of ancient coal.” John shook his head. 

“Fancy pricing, too.” Selina laid down the photo album on her desk and picked up her champagne flute. As a gemologist who had built up a very successful career in high-end jewel sales, Selina could spot a quality gem cut in seconds, but off the clock, she wore very little jewelry. She didn’t like unnecessary attachments. 

“Do things calm down for you now party season is over?”

She rolled her eyes. “Party season never ends. January just gets busier. I’m like Target, right after the holidays. Everyone shows up with their gift receipts wanting to exchange their presents. Sometimes to pay for the gifts they bought the month before. Sometimes for a session in the latest detox centre, ‘tis the season for self-improvement after all.”

Selina snorted, having never needed anyone else’s help in improving herself, and the champagne bubbles crept up on her and made her hiccup. After she recovered herself, she said, “And what about you, Blake? When will Thesis Hell be over?”

John switched his attention to the champagne and drained his glass. “This year. Almost certainly. If I see you this time next year and I’m still doing this master’s, just throw me off a tall building.”

“Nah, your head is too hard. You’d bounce. But I do worry about you, Boy Wonder. You had a masochistic streak even before you became a grad student. I remember you in judo class, always stepping up to the higher grade fighters to kick your ass.”

“That was when I was 12, Kyle.”

Selina shrugged. “My point stands.”

“I’ll be fine. It’ll be over. I just have to keep to myself for a few months, get it submitted, and then there’ll be more champagne. Or maybe just beer, I’ll still be on a budget.”

“Once you submit, I’ll provide the champagne, don’t worry. I have a crate of this stuff in my bedroom.”

“Of course you do.” John sank into the couch and smiled at Selina. Maybe it was the pricey booze and the company of his favorite cold-hearted ho, but despite the amount of work he had in front of him, he was starting to feel optimistic about the year ahead. “I mean, it’s only grad school. What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

It was still cold in Gotham in February, but John didn’t feel it as he sprinted across the park. He could make out the moving figures of the group in the far basketball court as he got closer to them, and saw them begin to notice his approach. 

Running in from the side, he caught a basketball that someone threw over at him. “Sorry, sorry.”

He bit his lip, not wanting to make excuses. As a rule, the kids on his basketball team heard enough excuses. He hated that he was late for practice, even if it was only by five minutes. 

“Chill, Coach,” “It’s fine, dude!” “Nah, make him pay - drop and give us fifty!”

In the midst of getting his breath back, John feigned hitting the ground to do a push-up, then pointed at Enzo, who’d cracked the last joke. “Don’t forget who comes up with your drills.”

Enzo staggered back as if hit. “Sounds like we’ve got a badass here, fellas!”

Straightening up and shifting into Coach mode, John folded his arms. “You bet you do. Doesn’t look like you’ve been warming up in my absence - start moving.”

He moved his finger in a circle to indicate the court. There were a few groans as they began to pace around. John yelled out, “Shoulder shrugs. Hut!”

Most of John’s coaching approach wasn’t about technique, speed, or refinement. He was more interested in getting them to work together, developing a sense of trust with each other, and exhausting their bodies as much as possible. There weren’t many more volatile substances on Earth than teenage boys with unexpressed energy. They didn’t need him to goad them to be more competitive - that came naturally - or to be motivated. If they enjoyed themselves and made friends, then John figured the motivation would come. He’d been right so far, the team had hung on together for the last two seasons, and this year they’d have their biggest roster yet. 

The team wasn’t part of a formal league, but by now enough players regularly turned up to weekly practice that he could split them into two teams and have them play against each other. Sometimes a group of kids from another block would show up and want to throw down. John had considered trying to get funding for them to become a proper team, with a name, uniforms, and be part of a local title play-off. It was on his If I Survive My Thesis wishlist right after ‘get laid regularly’, ‘take up Selina’s offer of a joint international holiday’ and ‘watch every Jason Statham movie ever made’.

At the end of the match, he made them all stick around to warm down and stretch (“You can complain all you want while your ligaments are young and supple, but one serious injury and you could take years to regain full range of motion”) and remind everyone of the importance of hydration. He fist-bumped players as they wandered off court, and promised Enzo he’d be early next time. 

“You better be, Coach, or I might have to start a fine system like they do in the NBA.” 

Slapping Enzo on the back, John went over to where Sammy was re-tying his laces. “What’s up, Sam? Want to help me pick this stuff up, in exchange for the finest carbonated beverage?”

Sammy’s smile was wide and canny. “And M&Ms?”

“Yeah, well, maybe.” 

John would get them both M&Ms, and Sammy knew that - the kid was barely fourteen, short and stocky, he still tripped up over his own feet, but he’d been showing up for practice since day one, instantly charming John with his overflowing personality. 

As usual, they bagged up the basketballs and stored them in the locker the court caretaker let John use for free. Sammy had his own key to the locker, which was why one corner of it had a stash of Tolkien novels and a flashlight that John pretended not to see. All the while Sammy caught John up to speed on all the latest gossip. The biggest news was an underground fight club that was the talk of the streets. 

Sammy told him all about as they walked over to the bodega for sodas and candy. “It’s like the city’s most badass of the badasses. They get together in a warehouse after dark to go total beastmode on each other. And if you win all your rounds, you go to Boss Battle where you get to face the Master.”

“Right. And if you beat the Master?”

Laughing at John’s naivete, Sammy replied, “No one beats the Master, they just try to survive him. He’s the _Master_.”

John pictured a dozen adolescent boys in a car park, daring to hit each other harder. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Only if you don’t have the mad skills,” Sammy started shadow-boxing and kicking into the air. 

“Sure, John Cena, I’ll bet. You’re not thinking of going in and trying to waste someone, are you?”

Sammy shook his head in regret. “Nah, you gotta be eighteen or over. They’re real serious about it, make a man bring ID and everything.”

That sounded weird to John. “Where is this place?”

“Only a select few know! You gotta have an in.”

“Oh, it’s like that. Has anyone you know actually been to one of these fights?” 

Eventually Sammy allowed that, apart from some clips on YouTube, no one he knew had _seen_ the fights, but they all knew it was happening, and that the Master was the greatest fighter that anyone had ever seen. “He’s the bomb dot com.”

John walked Sammy to his stoop, and took his bag of peanut M&Ms to fight, beastmode style, with his thesis. After ninety minutes of trying to put an Excel table into a Microsoft Word document, he took a break from cursing Bill Gates to every form of hell he could think of to check his messages. Remembering what Sammy had said, he decided to try and find some of those fight club YouTube clips he’d had described so vividly to him. It didn’t take him long when they were named things like “Underground Fighting Ring - No holds barred!! Gotham CONFIDENTIAL”

The fighting didn’t look ‘no holds barred’ to John’s eyes. It looked like MMA. Which made sense, as there had been a ban on MMA fights in Gotham last year - a stupid piece of policy that was bound to drive people underground. It was one of the many boneheaded things Mayor Cobblepot had done before, blessedly, being forced to resign over the conflict of interest scandal the _Gotham Times_ had uncovered. 

No one had got around to repealing the law yet, which meant that fighters either went out of state for prize fights, or smaller fights took place where the police wouldn’t see. Which was why most of the fighters in the videos had their faces covered up. 

John watched a few, seeing some good fights, some terrible ones, and a few mediocre ones. It did make him think he should increase his workouts, get to the dojo a little more often than three times a week. Some of the tricks on display were too flashy for his tastes, but it’d be good for him to increase his repertoire of fighting styles. 

There were a few references in the videos to “the Master”, with people saying “and now on to face the Master!” or “that move was perfected by the Master”, but this so-called Master didn’t ever appear on screen. John revisited his search, to see if there was a video that he’d missed, then scoured the comments sections, which led him to a subreddit called r/secretgothamfights. It was full of people complaining that videos of The Master were taken down instantly, and describing these apparently legendary bouts to each other. 

Yawning and pressing back in his chair, John felt his back click. He looked longingly at the empty candy packets next to his laptop, and briefly considered running out for more junk food, maybe some booze, maybe he could reinstall Grindr and hookup tonight… 

Closing his eyes, he thought that the sum of his desires was paltry. Chocolate, dick, sleep. 

He said out loud to himself, “What would the Master do? Not eat M&Ms for dinner or piss around on YouTube when there’s a chapter to be finished.” 

The empty room didn’t reply. The cursor on his Word continued to blink up at him. John answered his own challenge, and went back to his research notes. 

 

When John first started martial arts, he heard “slow down” a whole lot. His sensei would point out there could be various ways to resolve a challenge, that it wasn’t always the best strategy to go in kicking as hard as possible, as soon as possible. 

He’d never told his thesis supervisor about that, but as usual, Dr. Barbara Gordon was uncannily prescient. 

“You’re trying to rush this, aren’t you?”

John opened his mouth to firmly deny it, but she raised an eyebrow and he slumped a little in his chair. “It’s just - this is not my thing, all the jargon and the writing and the goddamn footnotes. It’s the research I care about. I know why this stuff is important, but I’m not an academic.”

“You’re wrong about that, John, you have an analytic brain, you’re sharp, a quick study, and you care passionately about your subject. But,” and here she smiled, and John braced for impact. “You don’t think you’re an academic because you get mired in the details, battling fleas when you want to slay dragons. Getting a master’s in social work - to you it’s a weapon, a bit of paper that will help you get things done.”

“Well, yeah, of course - ”

“But it’s the process, too. It matters. This research you’ve done, how many interviews? How much study? This is some of the most in-depth analysis of what effect recent policy changes in public housing has on rates of homelessness on LGBT youth. When it’s published, it will directly refute a lot of what the Cobblepot administration claimed that they achieved for Gotham. Just because Cobblepot is gone, doesn’t mean all his cronies are - you think they’ll be happy about this research?”

“You know I’m hoping they won’t be happy. I want to get a damn inquiry started, light a fire under their asses.”

“And you want someone to discredit you because there’s a formatting issue with the data? You want to get rejected by journals because the writing is sloppy? All that will slow down the release of your work,”

John leaned forward, “But - the next mayoral election is just eighteen months away, this stuff needs to be out there so they can be pushed to do the right thing.”

“Exactly why you need to slow down _now_ and concentrate. You’re nearly there. I know you want it out as soon as possible, but listen to me. Get these edits done first, get it right, and no one will be able to pick any nits.”

Sighing, John nodded at her. Barbara was always right, and even when it hurt to hear, he knew she would never let him do things the easy way if it wasn’t the best way. He’d lucked out getting her as a supervisor after his terrible experience with Dr. Crane nearly led to him quit his degree. 

“Thanks. I will. The end is in sight, though? Give me something, some shred of hope.”

She laughed. “It is, and I’ll give you more than a shred. I just heard from a contact of mine at the Wayne Foundation. They’re looking for someone to work with them on policy and training procedures for their outreach programs.”

“The Wayne Foundation are hiring? That’s great news. Do you need some names to recommend them? My friend Val could be good, she’s been a case worker over in the Narrows -”

“John, I have a name to recommend them. Yours. I’ll send over the contact details for the HR people, they said to drop them a line and they’ll set up an interview.” 

 

Selina was out of town, so John discussed his future career planning with his other general life consultant. 

“You got an interview?”

“A job interview, yeah.”

Sammy clapped with enthusiasm. “You’ll stun them Coach! You’ve done so much stuff, like with the team, and your job and stuff. Just go in there, put your feet up on the desk, and demand they give you it. Make them beg you to work for them, hardball ‘em.”

“It doesn’t really work like that in the nonprofit sector, Sammy. Or for anyone who’s not Kobe Bryant.”

Side-eying John, Sammy looked amused. “You’re not scared, man? Just go in and be awesome.”

“I don’t like job interviews. I only have one suit, it reminds me of funerals.”

Sammy laughed at him and punched him in the shoulder. He thought John was joking, and John figured the best Role Model thing to do would be to pretend that he was. 

Glancing at his phone, he saw he had two missed calls. They were both from his landlord. There was also a message from the woman who lived upstairs from him to call her back immediately. 

“Uh, Sammy, looks like I gotta make a call, you run home, OK?” 

“Let me guess, they’re calling you to offer the job and unlimited vacation time?”

As the dial tone rang, John didn’t share Sammy’s optimism.

“Hey, this is John Blake, apartment 39F? Is there something up?”

His landlord’s voice was gruff. “39F? You got insurance, right?”

 

In the best of circumstances, writing a cover letter wasn’t within a ten mile radius of John’s idea of fun. But it was extra-hard switching his mind from thesis-writing mode to creating-a-cover-letter mode when half of his apartment was swaddled in towels after a water pipe had exploded above his kitchen. 

The landlord had wanted him out right away, but once John had taken in the damage, he’d told him to come back tomorrow and argue about responsibility then. He still had wifi and electricity, so there was no excuse for missing the job application deadline.

He wanted to quit and send whining texts to Selina, but not as much he wanted to keep the job application secret from her so that if, praise Gay Jesus, he _did_ get it, he could tell her in the most casual no-biggie fashion. John knew that was his ego in action, and he also knew that he was just procrastinating with daydreams of her throwing her arms around him and promising to take him on a congratulatory trip to Paris. 

Just as he looked at his phone, which was face-down on his desk, it began to buzz. It gave John a small jolt, and he paused before slowly tipping it to the side, wondering if it was Selina and how tickled she would be at the coincidence. 

The display didn’t say Selina; it was Sammy. Who rarely ever called him, and certainly never after 9pm. 

“Hey, Sammy, what’s up?”

As soon as John heard the voice on the other end of the call, his stomach dropped to the floor. Sammy sounded petrified.

“It’s Enzo. He’s in trouble,” Sammy’s voice wobbled, and John could hear shouting and banging in the background.

“What kind of trouble?” 

John’s mind raced with the possibilities. Enzo was a good kid but he was full of that volatile teenage energy that could nuke any kind of impulse control in microseconds. 

“We went to fight club. Some guy said Enzo could make good money, and he brought us along as his crew,” Sammy’s voice wavered, and behind him there was a roar of voices. “He got hurt. Bad. But they won’t let him leave with his money. John, I’m talking to John - ”

Sammy broke off, and John realised he was addressing someone else, but he had the phone mashed to his face so John could hear most of the exchange. Sammy was saying, 

“We need _help_ ,” and someone John couldn’t identify was arguing.

“ - leave outsiders out of this, we can’t be bringing in someone new - ”

“John can help, he knows people, and he always says to call him if - ”

“Enzo can do this himself! Don’t ruin it for him, you idiot, we should’ve never - ”

Then the call broke off. 

John dialled back immediately, bolting out of his chair to grab his jacket and shove his emergency wallet, the one with no I.D. or cards and $200 in cash, in his back pocket. He kept ringing as he belted down the stairs, figuring he would head further downtown, towards Enzo’s usual hangout spots to see if he could shake out some more information. 

Sammy didn’t pick up, but he did send a message through: 

_We r @ warehouse 18 near the east docks close to st paul look for orange truck_

_Password to get in is league of shadows_

Saint Paul Avenue was ten minutes away. Less if he ran. 

 

Warehouse 18 was bigger inside than it looked from the outside, where John had given the ridiculous password to a sketchy-looking guy who had insisted on frisking him for weapons. He hadn’t asked for any money, just waved John in with an indifferent shrug.

The lighting was dim, casting the fragmented crowd in dirty yellow light. At first glance, it looked entirely male, pacing around the edge of a MMA fighting cage waiting for the next round to begin. There were even stalls along one side of the space, with around forty or fifty people - John spotted a young woman among them, standing and cheering. Many of them had bandanas, ripped-up t-shirts, or balaclavas on their faces. John guessed it was to protect their identities in the inevitable videos. 

There were two fighters in the octagon, both bloodied. John was relieved that Enzo wasn’t one of them. He had attracted some looks walking in, but he wasn’t interesting enough to draw eyes from the cage when the fighters started up again. People began shouting and clamouring for a better place to see, while John moved around the perimeter, trying to find Sammy. 

He was huddled next to a pillar, looking bleakly at the fight with tear-stained cheeks. Near him, Enzo was arguing with some other kids, ones John recognised from the block. 

Enzo’s right arm was cradled to his chest, while the rest of his body was puffed out defensively, it curled in, looking like a broken wing. His head snapped up as he saw John coming towards them. 

“Coach, you didn’t have to come - ”

“Who squealed?” That was a kid John didn’t really know, thickset with a patchy moustache and an oversized baseball jacket. He was looking over at Sammy, and John walked between the two of them. 

“Don’t say anything to him.” John could out-threaten this little creep in less time than it took to crack his knuckles, and he didn’t bother to look back at him as he advanced on Enzo.

“What happened?”

Enzo looked to the side, as if John would just disappear if he didn’t see him. John grabbed his jaw and squeezed it extra hard to turn his face around. “Don’t even think of fucking around. Just tell me.”

He didn’t let go. Enzo’s throat worked, and anger flared in his eyes, then a moment later died, and his face softened. He’d been going too hard tonight already, and there was no adrenaline left for John. When he talked, it was barely above a whisper.

“I was fighting. Got through two rounds, won them clean, but in the last one, I got my hand busted,” He jutted his chin out where John still had it in his hand, speaking louder “and I won that one, too.” 

“Why are you fighting?”

“I heard I could make some money,” Enzo’s voice rose plaintively, his good arm flapping at his side.

“Jesus, Enzo, if you owe someone - ”

“It’s not like that man! It’s my Moms, she had her lights cut off when the bank messed up her paycheck, she didn’t even do anything wrong but because she missed a couple of payments, they just cut it - I know what you’re gonna say,” 

“That there are other ways to deal with this, instead of putting your personal safety on the line,”

“This guy saw me at the gym, said I could make five hundred, easy. Just by fighting.”

“When has there ever been an easy five hundred dollars?” John stopped. He dropped his hand from Enzo’s jaw and rubbed his own eyes. He knew nagging wasn’t going to help. 

“Hey, fighter fifteen!”

That was directed to them. John and Enzo swiveled to see some of the crowd looking their way. The last fight was ending, and a man in army fatigues was walking out of the octagon towards them. 

Enzo said under his breath, “Fifteen. That’s my number.” 

The man was within shouting range of them now. “Fifteen is up next. He who entered, must fight, forfeit, or use a proxy. What’s your choice?”

John turned back to Enzo. “You can forfeit, we can get out of here right now. Just tell him,”

“But Coach, my money!”

“What did you put down?”

“What I made on the first fight - eight hundred. Plus fifty I had to put up fight in the first place. If I don’t fight again, I lose it all.” 

“You can’t fight anymore tonight, Enzo. Look at your wrist.” 

It was already swollen. Enzo tucked it higher his chest, making him look younger. The defiance was still burning in his eyes, but so was the desperation, and the fear, that had got him this far. 

The man was standing at the edge of their little group. He had pulled his red bandana down his lean face, and he spoke again. “Fighter fifteen. We need to hear your choice.”

Holding up a hand to get the guy’s attention, John asked him, “Do you have an age limit on fighters?”

“Yes. All must be over eighteen.”

Some _oohs_ reverberated around the crowd, followed by laughter. 

John stepped forward. “This entrant is under eighteen.”

The man raised his shoulders and let them fall in a shrug. “Then he leaves.”

Behind him, John could hear Enzo crying out, “But that’s my money!”

“Can he go freely?” 

“Yes. But he forfeits his winnings.”

“I can’t let him fight.” 

“Only people who participate in every fight get to take their winnings.”

Enzo was yelling again - “That’s my take, I won that!” - and John hushed him, and asked the smirking guy, “So he has to beat someone else? He’s been here all night.” 

“No, not beat. He - or his proxy - has to last three minutes in the ring.”

With his good hand, Enzo was tugging at John’s shoulder. John ignored him. He was thinking, _just three minutes?_

“With him?” 

John pointed to an injured fighter hunched in the corner of the ring.

The man’s smile broke wide. “No. With the Master. With Bane.”

That was when John first saw him. He had been standing in the shadows, but at the sound of his name, he stepped forward. The crowd parted around him, everyone’s body language changing rapidly from aggression to supplication. John, against his own defensive instincts telling him to show no fear, swallowed dryly. 

No sane fighter on earth would want to challenge someone who was called “the Master” on his own ground. Even if his name had been significantly more cuddly than “Bane”, this dude was terrifying. Built like Goliath, in all-black, with a black bandana wrapped around his mouth, he moved smoothly, every step tread with deliberation, the grace of a dancer with the threat of a machine gun. A few seconds of watching him in motion told John all he needed to know about how this guy would fight.

Enzo had got the message, too. He was a scrappy fighter, quick and controlled, but would be totally overmatched by Bane. For the first time that night he shut up, adding to the hush of the crowd. 

Bane spoke up. His voice was a low growl, and reverberated from every surface in the building. 

“I will not fight an underage participant.”

John could walk out. Enzo’s wrist would heal, he’d learn his lesson, and the money was never really his in the first place. 

He could hear the whispers from his kids, who were huddling behind Enzo. After seeing Bane, they had changed their tune about Enzo’s perseverance. Now they were saying supportive things like, “It doesn’t matter, bro,” “You proved yourself. Everyone will know you,” “Let’s just get out of here homie. You’re still the man.”

The right thing to do, John’s various academic journal papers would argue, would be to diffuse the situation. Minimise it. Contain the amount of expended energy, and redirect it. Not to think about the next desperate kid who showed up at this warehouse, and the next offer of an easy five hundred dollars. 

John stepped forward. “I will stand as his proxy.”

Someone from the crowd said, “You won’t be standing for long, then,” and others laughed. John did his best not to swallow, waver, or show any physical expression of fear. He kept his voice level. 

“I want to make a deal with you. If I fight, and last three minutes, you never let those kids in again. Not as spectators, nothing.”

“They should never have been here in the first place. This is for adults only.” 

“Your ID checks suck, then.” John spat it out, and a buzz of outrage came from the crowd. Bane silenced it with one raised hand. 

Looking at John, Bane narrowed his eyes, and then nodded slowly. “Regulations may have gotten lax. This,” he turned to address the fighters behind him, “is why I was reluctant to have money placed on battles.”

More protest from the crowd, but John paid them less attention, focusing entirely on Bane. 

“And none of your ‘accomplices’ here recruit any more kids as ringers. Keep them out of the youth clubs.”

Bane nodded. 

“And if I get through the three minutes, he walks out of here with the cash.”

“Of course.”

There was more noise from the crowd, jeers and insults and claps and support, but to John it was all a dull haze. He was focused on the man who had moved to stand right in front of him.

“You have made an honorable deal. But I will not go easy on you.”

John gritted his teeth. “I never asked you to.”

Bane’s head tilted to the side, as if he was amused, then he shook it imperceptibly and moved towards the walls of the fighting cage. 

The crowd clumped around the edges. John stood at one corner, his hoodie and belt off, re-tying his shoes. He twisted around, got a little extra space in his back and warmed up his joints as best as he could. Across from him Bane was standing steady as a pillar. Someone threw John some handwraps, and tying them gave him the chance to think through his strategy. Main strategy: try not to get killed, put into a coma, or lose a limb. He would try and move quickly - fighters the size of Bane tended to move slightly slower, not that they needed to break any speed records. He was built like a powerlifter, so John suspected he would get airborne at some point. The quality of his falls would be crucial. 

A skinny man in combats, with a red scarf wrapped around his face, stepped into the octagon center. He raised his eyebrows at John, who nodded. He was as ready as he’d ever be. 

He could hear Enzo calling his name, and knew he should turn around to reassure the kid. But when John was in a ring, he was concentrating on one thing only. Mentally, he shoved Enzo aside, along with Sammy and the rest of the kids. Along with his meetings with his thesis advisor, the unanswered emails in his inbox, the case files that needed to be digitized, and the broadband bill he had to pay. It was him and another fighter, and John’s job was to do one thing.

Protect himself. 

The skinny man held up a tablet with a timer display, red on black pixels saying 00:03:00. 

“Fighters, to your corners.”

It was a redundant thing to say, John and Bane were already in their corners, but it helped shut the crowd up. 

“When this timer begins, the fight starts. It doesn’t end until the timer does. Is everyone clear?”

“Crystal.” John replied. 

Bane just gave him a long, level look. 

The timer began. Bane advanced. 

00:02:45 

John danced for a little while, getting a feel for how nimble Bane was. The answer was, surprisingly so - John ducked to his left and right, and narrowly avoided blows from each side. They shifted sides, John nearer Bane’s corner, realising suddenly that he was in danger of being hemmed in. 

00:02:33

Bane’s first strike. He’d waited, letting John bob and weave from his punches and kicks, the two of them getting close enough for John’s hair to graze Bane’s arm. But then Bane got his foot in front of where John’s leg was going to land, and as John pivoted to change his step, he was hit in the shoulder.

00:02:19

After the shoulder, the chest, and his left ribs. John automatically moved with the motion of the blows, to reduce their impact, but it was still like being hit by a sledgehammer. Spinning on the balls of his feet he moved to Bane’s left side, forcing Bane to change his own stance. 

00:02:02

John made one jab, to Bane’s kidneys. It was like punching a tank. He thought he may have heard Bane laugh, but any sound was quickly muffled as John was put into a headlock.

00:01:52

From the headlock, Bane spun him up and over, landing John flat on his back. Struggling for breath, he barely had time to jump to his feet when he had to dive for the floor again to avoid contact with one of those massive fists. 

00:01:39

The other fist got him.

00:01:11

Rolling off the floor, John pulled in all the oxygen he could and came up in a low kick at where Bane’s left foot. It was an ungainly move, all force and no finesse, and set John back on the floor, but he’d managed to trip Bane up.

00:01:02

Not enough to make Bane fall, of course, just slow him down for a few precious seconds. John dimly registered the gasp of the crowd at Bane’s stumble, and with the attention off him he made his way to a far corner at Bane’s back. 

00:00:51

Bane turned around and advanced on him. John squatted down, keeping his legs wide, ready to spring to either side. He figured he could get one good jump in. He watched Bane, moving a hair slower than he had been, leading with his right arm - but looking at John, and glancing, twice, in a split-second, to the left. Bracing himself, John waited until the massive arm was in mid-swing and jumped left. 

00:00:38

John could jump and roll the whole length of the Gotham Bridge if he had to, but he didn’t have the real estate, he had a couple of feet on Bane and some part of his brain thought that, maybe, he could keep up the evasion tactics until the time was out. Then his left thigh was grabbed and he was lifted way, way up into the air. 

00:00:30 

The last half minute was a blur. John’s eye was swelling, and his ribs and knees were yelling with pain, but John was determined to stay as quiet as possible. Bane was flipping him around, up, down, all across the cage. John had just enough Judo experience to land in a way to protect his back and joints. As soon as he hit the ground, Bane would scoop him up again, tugging him by the legs, or lifting him to chest height, and John would brace for the sudden rush of gravity. 

“FIGHT OVER!”

He didn’t realise it had ended at first. He lay on the ground, waiting for Bane to find a new way to send him flying, but when he sensed Bane’s footsteps coming behind him, no contact was made. 

There was yelling. John heard the names “Bane” and “Master!” being chanted over and over. Bane had left him arranged in a position where it was easy enough to roll to one side and just breathe through the pain. He didn’t do much but lie there, scanning his body for any major ruptures, idly considering which emergency room was closest and whether Selina would steal a diamond for him to pay the insurance bill. 

At some point there were feet running up to him, and John instinctively curled up to protect himself. But instead of a kick to the kidneys, he heard crying as arms wrapped around him. Someone was kneeling over him, one hand floating in front of his face, and John realised that it was Enzo, and that Sammy was hugging him, and the hug was too tight for his ribs, which were probably broken, but he still didn’t want Sammy to stop. Then he blinked and saw that Enzo was the one crying and apologizing. 

He blinked again, waves of the exhaustion beginning to hit him. If he didn’t get up soon, he would fall asleep here, and his survival senses were at least sharp enough to know that was a bad idea. 

“Hey, Sammy, I gotta get up,” John tried to say, sounding a little muffled with the cut lip and general overwhelming agony. 

Enzo cried harder when John spoke. “Oh man, oh Coach - I didn’t know, I am so sorry,”

He was on his knees, trying to help John roll up to sitting, but Sammy stepped over John and pushed him away. John let out a groan - Enzo with only one working arm was still more stable than John was by himself - and steadied himself on his least-painful wrist. 

Sammy was smacking the hell out of Enzo, who was still crying, taking the blows on his head and back as Sammy yelled, “This is your fault! You hurt him! Get off, leave us alone, you suck, you giant loser _ass_!”

“Kids,” John was trying to speak and ignore the many displeased nerve endings in his body. “Please, Sammy. Stop hitting him.”

Unlike Enzo, Sammy was dry-eyed, but brittle with fury. John was shocked at how angry he was, all of his usual energy and joy transformed to a hatred, waves of which rolled off him like heat. He stopped whacking Enzo and backed off with his eyes drilling holes in him, coming around to stand over John protectively. 

Without Enzo’s help, John got to his feet. Enzo was there, hovering at the edges, his friends gathered behind him. They all looked younger than they had previously, their faces a little more scared, a little more wounded, and from that John deduced that he must look terrible. 

“Enzo,” John said through clenched teeth. “Go get your money.”

The kid looked blank for a second, then nodded, speaking slowly as if John might be brain damaged. 

“Dog, I already got it. Dude gave it to me as soon as you walked in, didn’t you see?”

On their way out, the announcer from the ring stopped them. He pulled down his red bandana and said, “Bane said to thank you for the fight. He wants to know your name.”

John tasted blood on his lip, wondered where it had split. “Tell him that my name wasn’t part of our deal.”

He turned towards the door, Sammy’s arm wrapped around his waist, and walked his kids out of there as quickly as he could. 


	2. Chapter 2

People were jammed so tightly in the subway station that John couldn’t even make out the exit signs. He was too far in the crowd to have any hope of turning back, though his only only other option would be to get a train to another stop and have to walk that much farther back to his apartment. His suit jacket felt tight in all the wrong places, and his sore ribs kept being poked by people’s bags and elbows.

This happened at the Carville Street station every few Friday nights. An overflow of commuters leaving work and a surge of crowds to the newly-cool dive bars in the neighborhood would swell and crushed into each other on the narrow passage from the platform. All around John people were cursing, “‘fuck’s sake,” under their breath, the crowd not so resentful of the wait as they were of this one douchebag who was barking into his phone about _how unfair this was_ and _he couldn’t believe people were moving so slow oh my god_ and _sorry Sharon I have no idea how late I will be_. Sharon should be so lucky if he never showed up at all. 

John practiced the visualization techniques that his anger management counsellor had tried to drill into him when he was a turbulent tenager. He pictured himself at home, with a calming six pack. He pictured himself getting a blowjob from Ryan Gosling. He pictured himself slamming the loud douchebag’s phone into his stupid face over and over until he got the message to respect the social contract. 

There were so many things that John Blake wanted. But he would settle for cheap beer and the non-judgmental darkness of his apartment. He needed time, space, and alcohol, to process the job interview he’d just walked out of. 

After emerging from the subway’s slow scramble of bodies, John trudged to the bodega on the corner. Rubbing at the sore spot on his leg that had gotten bashed by someone’s swinging shopping bag, he cast a look over the single mop for sale in one corner. John had been in here just two nights ago, buying mops, buckets, and all the paper towels he could carry. Now, all he needed was in the chiller at the back. But first, a detour to the chips aisle, for some corn-based snacks full of hydrogenated oil and sky-high sodium levels. 

On the way he was distracted by a display of discounted cookies, and had fun picking out three different flavors before realising that the expiry date was last year. Putting them back regretfully, he looked up and nearly tipped over the entire display as he realized he knew the other customer in the store. 

John would have recognised Bane a mile off. The body remembers the person who kicked its ass. But after the initial shock wave of seeing that set of shoulders, that stance, and those piercing eyes had coursed through his nervous system, John did a double-take at being able to see his whole face. 

It was only from a distance, and John ducked his head right after, but Bane’s face was distinctive. Handsome, even, with narrow cheekbones under a rumpled brow, a straggly goatee, and sharp profile. John took a good look, adding to the pitifully small amount of intel he had on the guy who he’d let himself be beaten up by. 

Then he slunk behind a stack of canned chickpeas by the dry foods aisle. Of all the corner bodegas Bane could’ve walked into, why did he choose the same one John went to buy cheap beer and consolatory Cheetos? 

It was a pity, because if they’d met in another situation, John could imagine wanting to talk to Bane. He was the best fighter John had seen since he trained with Bruce, and he was good-looking enough to be distracting. 

Keeping his head down, John moved around the circumference of the store, aiming to pick up the beer from the right-hand side of the chiller, farthest away from where Bane was standing. It wasn’t that big of a store, but hopefully Bane was too distracted by stocking up on falafel mix or double-stuff Oreos, or whatever the Golden Market & Deli had on special that day. It wasn’t that likely - guys like Bane tended to keep their senses on high alert - but John walked hunched over, his whole body language screaming _I’m no threat, just leave me be._

Standing next to a rack of corn chips, John kept observing from the corner of his eyes. He saw the change in posture happen; Bane had been looking at him. John was tracking the movement of his head and his body and knew he was being watched. But he didn’t move closer to John. To John’s relief, he turned away, as if he was just there to get some last-minute groceries and get out.Perhaps, John thought as he picked up a bag of extra spicy nachos, he didn’t want to talk to the guy he’d beaten up a few days before. The etiquette was unclear. 

Letting himself relax, he strolled over to the beers. Instead of the usual bargain basement lagers he generally got, John picked up a six pack of Diamara, a dark ale he didn’t see on sale too often. Might as well treat himself to a decent drink to accompany his corn chips and despair. 

“That beer is from Santa Prisca.”

Bane’s voice didn’t sound one iota less intimidating than it had in the ring. Taken aback, John’s head snapped around. He hadn’t sensed the big man getting so close; he must move like a ballet dancer. 

John stared at him. Bane’s eyebrows were knitted together, and his lips pressed in a hard line. He spoke again. “Diamara. It is from Santa Prisca. One of the first products exported to the US after the trade blockade ended.”

Clearing his throat, he paused, eyes taking in John’s black eye and hunched position, which had resulted from his brain being caught between fight and flight. Flight was the only sensible option, but John’s brain had been thrown by the Wikipedia entry material Bane was telling him. 

Bane moved his hands to the lapels of his jacket, throwing his shoulders outwards, then stopped mid-motion and wrapped them behind his back. “Santa Prisca also produces some excellent dessert wines. They are less well-known, but connoisseurs appreciate them.”

“I don’t,” John’s brain was scrabbling for an appropriate response, “really drink wine. I drank Champagne on New Year’s Eve. Hit me out of nowhere and suddenly I was completely wasted.”

Not New Year’s Eve, but the second of day of the year, with Selina. She was in Madrid on business and had sent him a smug message with a photo of the view from her five star hotel room. He would’ve given his right nut to be with her right now, instead of chatting about alcohol types with the guy who’d smacked him around like a cat playing with a mouse. If this was a gay bar, and if John didn’t look like he’d been run over by a truck, this would be a good start to a Friday night. But he didn’t have a clue about what was going on in this particular interaction.

Bane replied, “Champagne can be deceptively strong if you’re unprepared for it.”

“Yeah. Well. I like beer. Gets me drunk at a rate I understand. Excuse me,” John made to move towards the counter. Bane stepped aside minutely to give him space to pass, his small talk reserves apparently exhausted. 

Their shoulders brushed each other as John walked past. He stopped mid-stride for a second, almost tempted to look back and see what Bane’s expression was. The whole encounter was a puzzle, but John felt pretty good about it. Maybe he would show up at another of Bane’s fights, watch him do his thing. Touching the tender side of his ribs, which still ached, he resolved not to get in the ring with him ever again. Just stick to watching, and discussing fancy booze.

Then he heard it. 

“Shut up, and give me the money.”

The words crackled through the store like a lightning bolt. From where John was standing, he could just see the shape of a man pointing something gun-shaped at the cashier, whose arms were above his head. 

John could see that the cashier’s hands were shaking. Then he pulled back into the alcove with the chiller. He turned to lock eyes with Bane, who had heard exactly what he had. 

They were both just far away enough that the thief, who was snarling, “Fuck you, open that register now, bitch! I know how much money you spics take on a Friday night before a game,”

Bane raised one finger. John nodded in confirmation. There appeared to be only one. Carefully placing his beer down without a sound, he raised his own hand to point in two directions - one the side route to the cashier, a straight line from where he was standing, the other the way back towards the door, behind the thief’s back. John tapped his chest and pointed back to the first way, then waved Bane to the back.

Looking at John with narrowed eyes, Bane signalled back a question - _are you sure?_ John nodded firmly. He wondered if Bane was going to go all alpha on him and refuse to take orders, but instead he slipped away past the fridges full of drinks. 

John didn’t have time to admire how quickly Bane could move. He crouched down to keep himself out of the eyeline of the two men at the counter, and propelled himself forward. 

“Hurry the fuck up! Dumb spic,”

This thief was either stupid, strung-out, or a combination of the two. He was spending far too much time waving his weapon around and running his mouth, and didn’t seem to understand that the cashier was Punjabi, not Hispanic. Stupid and weaponised were a bad combination, but John had enough time to notice that his center of gravity was off-kilter. 

John waited a moment for the weapon to lower. He still couldn’t make out whether it was a gun or not. Then the robber moved to lean on the countertop. That was when John went for his legs, knocking them both into a display of laundry powder. 

The dude was wiry, and frantic, with one hand still firmly on his weapon. John had managed to push his shoulder to the floor, but he was getting whacked in the head by the guy’s other hand as he kicked at John’s shins. 

Split-seconds later, Bane was on top of both of them. He slammed the hand with the weapon - a knife, not a gun, John noted, as he saw it skitter across the floor - down at the same time he pushed the guy’s head into the wall. 

“Get back.” Bane’s voice sounded several thousand times more intimidating now. 

John moved to restrain the thrashing legs, but then he saw what move Bane was telegraphing to him, and stood away. The adrenaline was flowing through him and all his aches and pains had disappeared. This was better than Tylenol. 

The cashier was peering over the counter and, John hoped, enjoying the show of Bane wrapping the thief up in an inescapable wrestling hold as much as John was. The guy’s face was going pink with exertion, then suddenly he sagged in Bane’s hold. 

The store went very quiet for a second. 

Behind John, the cashier exhaled a shuddering breath. Stepping around Bane, John picked up the knife by the blade, and took it back to the counter. 

“We should probably wrap this up in something.”

Distraction was a powerful tool. John watched the cashier spring into action, unfolding newspaper pages and carefully folding it around the knife in a delicate origami, finished off with a plastic bag saying GOLDEN MARKET HAVE A TOP DAY.

 

While they waited around for the cops to arrive, John tried to buy his beer. The cashier refused payment, and threw in some Cheetos along with it. 

“He asked me if you wanted some beer, too.”

At John’s question, Bane raised his head from where it was looming over the thief, who was now on his knees on the pavement outside the shop. 

“No. I am fine.”

“OK. I don’t think they have any Santa Priscan wine.”

Bane gave a half-smile at that. “It is not easy to find. I have only had it on my trips back to the islands.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

Bane nodded. “I left when I was young, and travelled all over the world for years, back when it was difficult for Santa Priscan citizens to return home easily. Once I returned, I realised it was a more complex place than the one I had known as a child.”

“I think every home is like that. I mean, I’m from here,” John laughed, “I was born a few blocks over, in Gotham Mercy. So many of the things I thought were normal for kids, I only found out later weren’t. Like getting good at fighting, that’s not necessary for most children. Or,” he added in a hurry, “being able to jump a turnstile when the ticket machines are all broken. I never got why tourists would just stand there, wondering how to get on the subway.”

“The ticket machines,” Bane repeated his words with deliberation. “They puzzled me when I first came to this city.”

“You live close by?”

Bane shook his head. “Not really. I was visiting another fighter tonight, and was walking by here,”

“And you thought, ‘I’ll see if that place has Diamara beer’.”

“No. I came into the store because I saw you enter it.”

“If you two fucking bitches are gonna keep yakking, can you let me stand up already?” 

John heard the pop of the robber’s shoulder as Bane dislocated it. He made a little moan, and went quiet again. 

Looking at Bane, John opened his mouth to ask just what the fuck he was doing following him. Then the sound of sirens boomed down the street, and a police car pulled over to sharply park next to them. The thief sagged more in Bane’s grasp, and a confused-looking officer jumped out of the car, hands on his cuffs, saying “OK, can one of you yahoos explain this for me?” 

John gave it his best try. 

 

The cops had taken the perp away, and the good citizens of Gotham were filling up the streets with Friday night noise and clatter. Yawning, John picked up his bag of groceries. The adrenaline of the evening had worn off in the middle of giving statements to the cops, and he could feel the exhaustion down to his bones. Moving to the gutter to let an old lady pass him, he wobbled and almost fell on his face. If he had the energy, he’d have laughed. After being in two fights in a week, he had almost landed in the hospital again after not being able to use a sidewalk correctly.

A hand reached out to steady him. “You have been hurt.”

“Nah,” John said to Bane, who was suddenly back at his side. “I’m tired, s’all.”

Bane looked at him searchingly. “Your eyes are bloodshot. Do you have a concussion? Have you seen a doctor?”

“Bane.” It was the first time John had used his name, and Bane seemed a little startled by it. “I’m fine. I just need to get home.”

“I will hail you a cab,”

Bane, aside from the following into the store stuff, was a considerate guy. But John waved him off. 

“That’s not necessary, thanks. I live like ten minutes from here.”

Bane stepped aside to let John start walking, only to fall into step alongside him. John stopped at the street curb, trying to ignore the mountain of a man waiting next to him, and waited for a break in the traffic. They crossed the road together, faces pinched with determination. Considering Bane was technically stalking him, he walked alongside John without a scrap of uncertainty . 

Unlocking the door to his apartment, John walked in with Bane keeping a close distance behind him. John hadn’t made to fall over again, but he did find chatting with Bane had kept his mind off of his injuries for the walk. 

“What happened here?”

John had forgotten to mention that his kitchen looked like the backdrop from a Jackie Chan movie, at the end of the fight scene. 

“Burst pipe in the apartment upstairs. Apparently the plumbing in this building is - to quote the plumber today - ‘completely ratfucked’. The force of the water pushed my fridge over, which is why there’s a hole there - ” John pointed to the floor, “and there,” and pointed to the space where his fridge had previously stood. 

Bane was standing in the middle of the debris. He looked far more concerned than he had back when he was about to fight John, but then, he had his face covered up. Surveying the damage, he said, “And you’re still living here?”

“It’s not so bad. I mean, it’s terrible, I have no heating and the only running water is one tap in my bathroom, and it turns out that there’s mould in the flooring which has been exposed and might be toxic so I have to leave in the next thirty days, actually, the next twenty-four days, and I haven’t even started packing or apartment hunting. But my laptop and notes weren’t damaged.”

Bane looked from the floor to stare at John. He said one word. 

“Laptop.”

“I’m about to submit my thesis. Master’s degree. And I had a job interview today, so I needed to do submit a job application for that. It was a nightmare, I had to upload my resume three times before the system accepted it, I swear, you need a PhD in computer science to use those things.”

“Do you have somewhere to live?”

“I have friends with couches, if it gets to that. But it won’t. I’m resourceful. I just need a night off. I’ll start looking tomorrow. I just needed to get this interview over with.”

“Don’t you work in the Willow Street shelter?”

John realised that he was getting the third degree from the guy who had yet to satisfyingly answer why he was following John around. “How do you know that? And,” he said, widening his stance just in case another confrontation was coming, “why?”

Bane lifted his chin. “I wanted to know what kind of man fought with such spirit. My people asked around, said you worked at the youth shelter for gay teens. That you are highly regarded in the neighborhood.”

There was a lot in that statement for John to unpack. He bypassed the compliments, and tried to fill in the blanks around Bane, who only got more mysterious the more he talked. “Your ‘people’?”

Giving a long, fluid shrug, Bane tilted his head, still examining John. “Fellow fighters.”

John put his six pack down on the floor. “Right. Of course. Yes, I work at the shelter, part-time, in between school. I did my research work there, too.”

Lifting his tie up, John looked at the cross-hatched pattern of the fabric. It was the only tie he owned. He continued, “I had a job interview today because I’m about to finish my studies, and I need to get a real job. Not that the shelter work isn’t real, but there’s barely any staff funding.”

Bane moved closer to him, his voice lower. “How was the interview?”

John didn’t have the energy not to be sarcastic. “Have you ever shown up to a job interview with a black eye?”

“Yes.”

That stopped John short. Bane’s eyebrows knitted together, and he looked almost sheepish. 

“Admittedly, they were jobs that involved... physical defence work.”

John looked up at him. Bane’s face was open, and his striking pale eyes looked honest. “You still do those jobs now, or just that sideshow in the warehouse?”

“I make no money from those fights.”

“Why do it, then?”

“These men will fight, John, you know that. I ensure they are in a controlled environment. I know everyone who comes, their strengths, weaknesses, vices. When conflict breaks out, I make sure they settle their grievances correctly.”

“You hold court?” John could see it somehow, Bane giving counsel to the ragtag groups of fighters. 

“I provide an authoritative judgement that they respect, even if they don’t like it.”

“What about those who fight out of desperation, for the money?”

“And how else would they get money?” 

“If you _dare_ to come in here, and give _me_ a speech about poverty and choices,” John pushed a finger into Bane’s chest, “I will throw your ass out, ‘Master’ or not.”

Bane didn’t bristle at that. Instead, he folded one hand over John’s, keeping it pressed into the warmth of his body. “I don’t mean to lecture you. I know what it’s like to have few options. That’s why I admire people who create new paths, like you. After seeing you fight, I knew you had fire in you, and then I heard about your work. It is admirable. But I did not expect to find you living like this.”

John pulled his hand away. “What, aside from the mould and the damp and the eviction notice, what on earth could be wrong here?”

His voice was rising. He felt slightly hysterical. 

“You can’t come home to this, in the cold, and drink with the lights off.”

John’s voice was nearly shot. He didn’t want to face the reason he’d led Bane into his apartment the kernel of desire that his company had ignited. “Watch me.”

“It is not good for you.”

John didn’t have it in him to laugh anymore, so he just closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. 

“You were just talking about a lack of options.” 

“John Blake. You may have more options than you think.”

He rolled his eyes at that. “I know. I know everything you’re about to say, because I’ve said it all before. Compared to many people, I’m lucky. There’ll be other job interviews. My dissertation review will someday, somehow, end, and I’ll get my master’s. I can find another apartment, and the odds are the kitchen won’t collapse on me for a second time. I have friends, and a support network, and my health, most of the time, when I’m not jumping in the ring with cage fighters, that is.

“But it’s been a rough week, OK? I’m done for. If you want to deliver a pep speech to save me from throwing myself of the Gotham Gate Bridge, consider it done. If you want to help me drink some beers, stick around, you’re decent company. Otherwise, the door is over there. I need to take this goddamn tie off.” 

“I am not going to drink any beer.”

“Well, that’s one of us.”

Bane was suddenly very close to him. Perhaps John had misjudged him, again. The icy grip of fear began to creep through John’s nervous system. He started thinking about possible weapons to use, evasion tactics, but then Bane picked up his tie and John realised he was about to be strangled to death. He might as well resign himself to it. 

Using John’s tie, Bane tugged him closer. One hand reached up to tentatively touch his brow just above the stitches. 

“I don’t think you should be drinking, it’s not good for you, I want,” Bane stopped, looking as lost as John felt. “I want you to keep warm. So that you can heal.”

His natural defensiveness rose up again, but only half-heartedly. Bane’s touch felt really good. “I’m healing just _fine_.”

John thought he’d be more convincing without the crumpled suit, black eye, and gutted kitchen. From Bane’s expression, he wasn’t the only one who thought so. 

Bane’s hand moved up from the tie in a slow, tentative move. John felt his head being cradled softly between two huge palms. 

This was something else other than John had expected. It was something that his body had suggested, watching Bane walk into his place, something his animal brain had latched onto, generating _want_ right behind _fear_ , but John had been too worn down to pay attention to the heat in his blood. 

“I have never,” Bane’s voice got smaller, as if he was trying to cram the words in a small place, “been with another man. It has never been a strong desire of mine. But when I saw you…”

John looked back up at him. The shock of hearing Bane say that put away everything else that had been rolling around in his head. 

Bane paused before he started speaking again, confidence returning to his voice. “I saw the fire in your eyes, the way you fought, I thought if there was a fighter of such quality in Gotham I would’ve have known you by now. And I kept thinking about you after you left. I found out the sacrifice you had made to fight me, and the work you do. When I saw you tonight I wanted to talk.”

His eyes were looking over John’s face searchingly. John couldn’t work out what color they were, even this close. He still had his hand pressed into Bane’s chest. Swallowing, he found his voice. “And what did you want to ask me?”

“If I can help you. If I can touch you.”

John’s lips were cracked. “You’ve made a start on the touching already.”

That wasn’t the right thing to say. Bane pulled his hands away, and John had to grab them back, curling his fingers around the thick wrists. He said softly, “I didn’t mean you had to stop.”

“May I,” Bane moved to grip his hands tightly, and John could feel how unsure he was as the question trailed off into the cold room. 

Bane found his voice again, “May I keep you warm?”

John nodded. It was his turn to be in charge. 

 

Inside John’s bedroom he switched on the bedside light and sat down on the mattress. He wished he’d made his bed in the morning, but he’d not been thinking about bringing anything to his bed except for a beer buzz and maybe some Chinese takeout. Certainly not a booty call with a couple of hundred pounds of pure muscle. 

He moved slowly. Partly because he was exhausted, though the tell-tale twitchines of muscle fatigue in his limbs was countered by the heat in his blood. But he didn’t want to spook Bane, who was evidently caught between his animal senses and his rational brain. John knew what fight or flight looked like, and Bane was reverberating with it. 

Sitting back he began to untie his shoes. His ribs stung as he curled over, and he tried to not let the pain show on his face. In a flurry of movement Bane interrupted his fingers as he dropped to his knees at John’s feet. John held his breath watching him untangle the knots of his shoes. He was beginning to feel the sheer force of Bane’s focus on him. It was in the careful sliding of his fingers around the tongue of his shoes, keeping John’s ankle bones from having to flex as they were each gently pulled off him. 

The hands on his feet stayed steady and patient as his socks were rolled down and off. John would have thrown them balled-up in the general direction of his clothes basket, but Bane folded them and placed them on top of his shoes. Every act was delivered with the same precision John remembered from the fight, and with that his left side spasmed and he let out a small groan, leaning to the side to readjust. 

Bane’s fingers stilled from where they were rubbing over the small bones of John’s feet. John looked down at him with a half smile. “S’nothing.”

Inhaling deeply, Bane sat up and moved his hands on top of John’s thighs. John’s hindbrain screamed, _put those higher_ , but he tried to keep a lid on it. It was quite a sight, though: Bane’s face flushed with hesitancy and desire, on his knees, close enough for John to push his face down into his lap. 

But that would have to be postponed, perhaps forever, until John had mapped Bane’s boundaries. He didn’t even know how he felt about kissing, about touching, about getting naked. 

“What do you want, Bane?” 

Hands tightening on his legs, Bane opened his mouth to speak, and John leaned forward to hear his answer. Instead dry lips brushed over his chin, down his neck, to rest in the crook of his shoulder. Without thinking, John pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around a broad back bowed in submission. 

Energy jolted Bane’s body. It had made a decision for him, and lips raised to John’s ear. “You. Clothes off.”

When John pulled back to yank off his sweater, he saw that Bane’s eyes were darkened with desire. This was more familiar ground, though John had never undressed for someone quite like this, where with every inch of skin he revealed hands moved like wings to cover him, where his clothes seemed to melt off of him, where he seemed to float back on to the bed with none of his bruises or sprains hurting. 

Bane kissed his belly, up to to the blued skin over John’s ribs where he’d absorbed a hard blow, then down to where his hands rubbed along his thighs. John stretched out to meet the pressure, his body tipping to the bedside where Bane was hunched over him. 

The yellow light from the table cast Bane in three-quarters shadow, as if he was still wearing a mask over his mouth. John reached up to move his face more into the glow, to make out the proud features, the high cheekbones, and lush mouth that were such a surprise under that heavy brow.

Plucking at the collar of Bane’s black t-shirt, which was stretched tantalisingly over his muscles, and Bane got the hint, throwing a hand above his own shoulder to quickly pull it off, before returning his attention to caressing John’s chest. 

He ran his hands down Bane’s back, ridged with muscle and scars. John wanted to see them, to catalogue them with more than fingertips, with lips and tongue and eyes. The fabric of Bane’s trousers was thick and rough, like canvas, and John tugged at them. He whispered into Bane’s ear, “You, too. All of it, off.”

The huge body hovering over him went still. John ran soothing hands up and down Bane’s flanks and turned his head to kiss the pale skin of his inner arms. He wouldn’t say _please_ , he could tell Bane wouldn’t like that, so he put it in his movements. 

John could remember the first time he’d been naked with another man, how scary it had been, as if his skin had been peeled off with his clothes. First times always had a core of danger to them, no matter how strong you were and how ready to fight. 

But any lingering fear Bane had was dispensed with his pants. Skin on skin, their legs wound together. John was hard, and so was Bane, but they were moving slowly, their hips gliding over each other. John felt ripples of pleasure in his limbs up to his stomach, his head swimming, giddy and drowsy. This wasn’t what he was used to in bed; neither of them were being the aggressors, both as tentative as teenagers but with the unhurried rhythm of practiced lovers. 

It was almost like taking a bath, having those heavy warm limbs cover him. But his stomach and thigh muscles were tightening, his hard-on insistent, hips canting under Bane’s grip. Lips were pressed to his collarbone, and when the pressure was transformed into nipping teeth, John felt it like an electric shock. He wrapped his legs around one oak tree thigh and ground up, his weight lifted by the hands grasping his ass, and let himself come messily and loudly. 

“Fuck! Fuck - _yes!_ ”

Sinking back into the mattress, John panted, feeling his face slacken with release. He wondered how long he’d been holding his jaw. 

Bane loomed above him, his forearms either side of John’s head. He was looking down at John intently, and John smiled like an idiot back up at him. Their come-splattered thighs were still interleaved, and Bane reached a hand down between them to grasp first at John’s softening cock before he gripped wet fingers around his own. Craning his neck to see, John promptly began to breathe heavily again, just able to make out the head of Bane’s dick rocking back and forth in his grip.

“Bane.”

Bane stopped, his body stiffening. His voice was low, “Yes?”

John rested his head back on the pillow. “Come on me.”

The only answer he got was a bitten-off cry, and a warm splash on his belly. 

 

 

The two of them were laying side-to-side on top of John’s bedspread. Bane looked thoughtful, his brows pressed together. 

John asked, “What did you think it would be like?”

Bane breathed in and out, his eyes on John’s ceiling, before his response. “Like fighting.”

That made John smile. “Sometimes it is. But not like how we did it.”

“No,”

Waiting for Bane to elaborate, John curled a little closer to him. The lamp was still on, and Bane’s profile was marked out in silhouette. He was, John realised, an astonishingly handsome man.

“In a fight, I know how I will move. Here, with you, I had to discover. It is the first time in a long time that I didn’t understand the entire situation.”

“That can be,” John paused. He didn’t want to say ‘scary’. “Uncomfortable.”

Bane snorted. “That is not good in sex.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t _good_ ,”

A hand rested on John’s chest, and rolled up to his chin. Bane sounded smug. “I noticed that. All over my leg.”

 

John woke up warm. His eyes opened as if they were spring loaded, and he felt the opposite of hungover - alert, refreshed, relaxed. It was still early, the night only just giving way to the morning, and he had a grin on his face before his brain had even kicked in with a reason why. He lay like that for a few hazy moments, eyes focusing on nothing in particular, feeling safe and comfortable in a time of day so stupidly early nothing was expected of him. 

Then he woke up more fully, curling his toes and pulling his shoulders back in a luxurious stretch. Consciousness hit, and with it the awareness that he was sharing a bed with a large, gorgeous man. 

He was feeling much better this morning. No hangover. Muscles sated and relaxed. The job interview was over, and he didn’t have to set foot in an academic institution until Monday morning. To celebrate, he wanted to give Bane a more dynamic lesson in having sex with another man. 

Working within the limits of a few broken ribs and a sore shoulder, John tipped himself over to curl around Bane’s body. It didn’t surprise him when Bane’s long eyelashes fluttered open. He struck John as the sort of man who slept lightly. A man used to being on his guard. 

Now that the watery morning light was trickling into the room, John could see more of Bane. There was almost too much of him to take in at once glance, and that didn’t even count his dick, which was one of the largest John had had the pleasure of encountering. 

Straddling thighs so thick they almost knocked him off-balance, John let his fingers roam over Bane’s hips, the striated cords of muscle in his legs, the powerhouse bulk of his belly, until, unable to resist, he grabbed a handful of semi-stiffened cock. Bane gave a little growl of pleasure, which made John’s morning even more cheerful. 

Ignoring the aches in his ribs, he bent over to take the head in his mouth. Curling his tongue around it, licking into the slit, feeling the exquisite tenderness of the uncut foreskin, he rolled it from cheek to cheek. He was in no shape to seriously deepthroat Bane’s monster dong right now, but he’d kept his hand busy and Bane hardened delightfully in his grip.

Taking his mouth off the hot flesh, John looked up at Bane as he rolled his foreskin down and reattached his lips to the exposed skin. Bane’s growls were deeper, and John could feel them where his legs were clamped over Bane’s thighs. It felt fucking great, like riding a rollercoaster, and John wriggled around to give himself humping room. 

His hips rocked against the solid warmth of Bane’s quads as he sucked harder, his cheeks hollowing against the weight in his mouth. A hand cradled his head, Bane whispering something, but John hung on, the body under him tensing as Bane’s hips buckled and he pumped down John’s throat. 

“That was,” Bane sounded slightly dazed. 

John finished his sentence for him, “A very good morning?”

“Mmm.”

It was one of Bane’s sounds, like the growls, from deep in his chest, that John was beginning to catalogue in his head. He knew that was dangerous, to get too familiar, but he was too lust-fogged to think clearly, rubbing himself against Bane in frantic thrusts until he came, feeling painless for the first time since he could easily remember. 

 

Selina and John met on January 2nd. It was getting to be a tradition. They weren’t people with many traditions in their lives. John liked that they had this one. He continued to let Selina provide the Champagne, even though his new job was paying more than he’d ever earned before, but as she pointed out he wasn’t the one who’d brokered a record-breaking sales of a rare gemstone collection from the al Ghul heiress to a Gotham reality TV star. 

“Do you even think the stones are real?”

Selina laughed. “Oh, they’re real. The provenance is disputed, though, which we made very clear to the buyer - she didn’t care, too busy trying to buy class. Thinks wearing Talia’s rings will get her invited to the same events,” She rolled her eyes. “As if. I don’t like Talia, and wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, but you can’t purchase that kind of old world bow-down-to-me demeanor that she has. Maybe it’s all that genocide in her DNA.”

John’s work brought him in daily contact with drug addicts, homeless people, violent offenders, and others who society had shoved to the margins. He’d take them over Selina’s clientele any day. 

Selina swirled her drink and looked over at him. “And how was your New Year’s this time?”

John fought the goofy smile that almost broke out over his face. “S’good. Just me and Bane, at his place.”

“The wheels haven’t fallen off that particular enterprise then?”

“Nope. Not at all. We’re even going on holiday together. He asked me last night if I’d visit Santa Prisca with him. It’s a work trip for him,”

Selina rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Must be nice, having a wine importer for a boyfriend.” 

“It’s expanding my palate.”

“If it was anyone else, I’d be bored with hearing about their amazing relationship, but I’m just happy that you’re happy. It’s a good look for you.”

They clinked their glasses together, and John switched the subject. There was only so much sincerity Selina could bear before she got bored and started breaking things for fun. 

“So, Ms. Kyle, any new year’s resolutions for you?”

She pursed her lips. “The usual. More money. More power. Grind my enemies to dust, try a hot stone manicure, maybe visit Tahiti. I’ve never been.”

“Doesn’t Bruce have a place in Tahiti?”

Selina did the fake-ass shrug she affected when she tried to deflect a question. “How would I know?”

“Because he’s been trying to marry you for, what, three years now?”

“That’s his problem, not mine. What about you, any resolutions?” 

John settled back into the couch and let himself smile. “Just one. No fighting with anyone. Unless...”

“Unless?”

“Unless I really love them.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bane-sized thanks to [ba_rabby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ba_rabby) for a tremendous beta job.


End file.
